


something we didn't know we needed

by riverbed



Series: somethings [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Crying, Daddy Kink, Discipline, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:49:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>thomas will bite and scratch to tease around it, and he'll talk about it - he'll <i>talk about it</i>, he'll let alexander have his fantasies in the heat of the moment - but his stomach flips and drops like a brick when he thinks of actually laying a hand on hamilton.</p><p>fortunately, hamilton has other arrangements besides their own that fill this gap.<br/>not-so-fortunately, thomas finds that he's less than poised at handling that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something we didn't know we needed

**Author's Note:**

> [prompt.](https://ham-kink.dreamwidth.org/937.html?thread=11177#cmt11177)  
>  it just happened to work here.

Eliza Schuyler is a fucking cut above, Thomas is sure of that much. She puts up with Hamilton’s boundless energy more than he thinks is humanly possible, presumably driven by a divinely-endowed patience. In Hamilton’s own words, she now has help, has someplace to send him when he becomes too much and she needs him tempered out.

So they’re fucking. Hamilton shows up at his door unannounced on the weekends, but he shows up with Chinese takeout or fresh flowers - Jefferson rolls his eyes but fusses over them, distributing them to vases with flower food he keeps under the sink. The apartment’s scented a new different floral every week, and Thomas is - he’s here, he’s present, certainly not smitten but he could be, he thinks, he's definitely getting there.

He’d called Eliza after that first time without much planning, just blurted out everything he wasn’t sure about. His concerns were met with utter reason, and Thomas had come away from that conversation steadfastly convinced of Eliza’s status as a superhuman. Since then, Alexander has demanded he fuck him over the counter, in the shower, and, notably, on the patio one night. _So I can watch the city,_ he’d said. _I love this city._ Hamilton had made too much noise in general and got down low, right in his ear, to muse about how if Jefferson wanted the whole neighborhood to know how good he gave it to him he’d keep doing exactly what he had been, and Jefferson had come immediately, pressing him hard against the rough wall.

There are interludes, of course, of other things. Some softer, some harder. Sometimes what Hamilton needs isn’t what he thinks he does. He’s always given fair warning on these occasions - Eliza will text him between when Hamilton leaves their house and when he gets to his, because he texts his coworker’s wife, now, about their mutual sexual arrangement with said coworker. His life is so goddamn surreal.

Hamilton needs someone big to hold him in his lap quietly, or he needs to kneel in the corner with his nose to the wall and be told to shut up in no uncertain terms, and have it enforced. He’s a handful; he’s spirited and feisty and Eliza knows exactly how to handle him, Jefferson knows, but he’s also starting to believe that she appreciates his help. He’s stronger, larger - sometimes Hamilton needs to be overwhelmed. He can see it in his eyes, wide as saucers, sometimes hazy with want. He’s a little ragdoll, usually, flops around easily when he’s moved by the hair especially, but he’s defiant and sometimes, when he’s really wired, he doesn’t feel like going down.

 _You have to hit him,_ Eliza texts him, after Thomas asks what the fuck he does in that circumstance. He stares at the screen in horror, then throws the phone down and shakes it off. Gives himself some time.

He considers it. In truth, he should have seen this coming. That first time, with the belt, and the light tap on his ass - that had been fun, watching his reactions. They have toyed with similar ideas since, but that’s all it’s been so far - ideas, tests. Entries for the catalogue he’s stuffing full with mental snapshots of Alexander’s face when he reacts to different things he tries. He’s never pressed the issue, and neither has Alex.

And Alex usually asks for what he wants. Once he asked him to spit on his face. He’s not ashamed. Nothing really freaks him out, not even Thomas’ darker shit; once he’d had him on top, riding him, and he’d gone _Take Daddy’s cock like a good boy, Alex, that’s it_ without thinking, and Alexander had given him a wide-eyed look but then he’d moaned and said _Yes, Daddy, yes yes_ and had patently Not Brought It Up after. Thomas had deeply appreciated it.

Jefferson cannot parse this. He imagines Alexander on his knees, wrestling against his hand in his hair, imagines reeling his arm back and cannot get his mind around the idea of landing his palm on Hamilton’s soft cheek. He tries to think of bending him over a table and it feels ritualistic, clinical. He can’t get past the initial steps. Eliza says they have a couple things she varies between, but that she usually strikes him with her hand; she says this is more effective at connecting them. Thomas can only assume it would drive them apart.

*

One thing Thomas could not have anticipated, when they’d first entered into this arrangement, was how thoroughly _normal_ work would be. Hamilton still drives him absolutely insane with his manner, and it’s almost easy to forget how pretty he is strung out on Jefferson’s hardwood floor. They don’t have to act; they regard each other as tightly as ever and it’s completely natural. Jefferson is not so endeared to Hamilton that he understands his radical ideas, and this is probably to do with the fact that they have a very strict agreement not to talk shop, a rule which carries the added benefit of being able to get into Hamilton’s head on other topics. He really does have a brilliant mind, wide in breadth and deep with consideration, and he’s witty enough that he often makes Jefferson laugh without meaning to. This, he admits, does fill him with some amount of affection; it’s hard not to feel any.

But when it comes to policy, Hamilton is still terrible, which is why Jefferson supposes it’s just fortunate that he at least holds an office that is not entirely political.

Another Friday meeting and Washington dismisses Jefferson, rather early again. “Hamilton,” he says, not looking at him but out the window. “You stay here.” Hamilton taps his pen against the desk.

Not one to question it, Jefferson rises to go, but Hamilton reaches out and shoves down on his shoulder. He gives him an affronted look, but Hamilton is not looking at him - he’s leaning forward in his seat, staring at Washington. “Sir,” he intones, sounding grave, “Jefferson can stay, if you’ll permit it.”

Washington swivels in his seat to look Hamilton up and down, and his eyes are widened ever so slightly. He’s still leaning back in his chair, hands folded in his lap and legs crossed, but there’s tension in his upper body, shoulders tucked forward just the slightest bit. If Jefferson didn’t spend as much time with him as he does, he wouldn’t see it. It takes a lot to get Washington ruffled. If he ends up staying, Jefferson’s about to witness something big.

And maybe he won’t just witness. As if in explanation, Hamilton rises, takes a couple of steps to Jefferson’s chair. Tilts his chin up with two fingers and bends over to kiss him, chastely, and Thomas is so shocked as to not know what to do with his hands. He keeps them stiffly at his sides, and Hamilton looks at him almost sympathetically when he pulls away. Strokes his cheek. Jefferson wonders at that.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long, as Washington rises and beckons Hamilton close to him, and Alexander goes, standing in front of him sort of wrapped around himself for a moment before Washington puts a hand on his flank and another in his hair, wrenches him back and kisses him. Hamilton’s body goes slack immediately; Jefferson can see the way his shoulders drop back as Washington runs the hand that had been in his hair down his upper arm through the fabric of his shirt. Hamilton puts both hands on Washington’s waist, tilting his head to sink into the kiss. Washington encircles him in his own arms, reaching around to put both large hands on his little ass and squeezes two handfuls, and Hamilton chirps, rises up higher on his toes as his eyes fly open in surprise.

Washington pulls away, only an inch or so, brushes his lips against Alexander’s as Alex’s eyelashes flutter. “Sir… I need…” he whispers, and Jefferson shifts in his seat. He's so much less demanding here; usually Hamilton is loud, insistent. Something about the way he’s yielding, that _Sir_ under his breath. Jefferson shudders; his legs suddenly feel too long. He can’t situate them comfortably.

Washington sits back down abruptly. Hamilton stands in front of him, and Washington tenderly raises each of his hands in turn, kisses the insides of his wrists. Jefferson watches, hawklike, not wanting to miss a moment. “Tell me, son,” Washington murmurs against the thin skin, “why are you staying today?”

Hamilton’s shaking; it’s very slight, but Jefferson can see it. The tremor’s in his hands, even as Washington runs his thumbs across the veins in his wrists softly. When he speaks, it’s quiet, and he keeps his eyes down on where the two of them are in contact.

“I… fucked up again, Sir. I blew up at an aide, and a messenger. A reporter. That’s three, I think that’s all. Had too much before a press conference and went on pretty sloppy. And… I… swore lots, Sir. Too many times to count.”

What is this? Jefferson has never seen Hamilton so meek, so quick to admissions. Since when does anyone care if he swears?

Washington tuts, pushes Hamilton’s sleeve up and kisses a bit further up his arm. “And you just added to it. I think, Hamilton,” he says lowly, “you’ll just take what I give tonight, without a number. It’ll help you relax. And given that we have a guest,” he adds, nodding toward Jefferson, “don’t start thinking you need to perform. I want you to benefit from this as you usually do. You don’t have to do anything but let it happen, son. Is that understood?”

Hamilton nods, but Washington sinks his teeth very shallowly into the heel of his hand, and he leans back, lets Washington support some of his weight by his grip on his arms. Breathes out, “Yes, Sir. Yes, I understand.”

Washington smiles, affectionate. He pulls Hamilton to the side of him, then he guides him by the wrist down over his lap, and Jefferson - oh, he gets it now, it all makes sense, their exchange, the thickness of the air, this entire thing. Washington’s face is neutral again, and he straightens his posture as Hamilton lays over both of his thighs and wiggles to get comfortable.

Washington’s hand dips under Hamilton’s body and Hamilton sighs as he drags his hand around under the waistband of his slacks. He untucks Hamilton’s shirt, pushing it up, and lays a hand on the curve of his lower back. Hamilton’s still shaking, and Washington pulses his fingers, stroking the back of his waist in short motions. He distracts him with this - expert, Jefferson thinks - as he uses the other hand to pull down Alex’s trousers, then his boxers, and finally he shucks them both off from his knees and lets the garments drop to the floor.

Hamilton is bare-assed in his lap, eyes steady on the gleaming hardwood under them. Jefferson closely watches the way Washington trails his fingertips across the skin - he knows exactly how soft that skin is, knows how the rest of Hamilton’s body jumps at certain touch. How Hamilton loves it pinched and kneaded and played with.

Alexander starts wriggling around again, impatient, but he only manages it a split-second before Washington’s open palm comes down on his ass, smacking more across than putting weight into it. Alexander yelps, and Jefferson gasps. It doesn’t make him hold still, though - he sways some more. “You gonna be insolent, huh? Disobedient?” Washington hits him again, and then again, to punctuate. Alexander shakes his head frantically. “No need to answer, son. I’ll draw my own conclusions off your actions.”

There’s a lot of panting and grunting as Washington’s blows rain down on Hamilton’s rapidly reddening ass, and he’s making absolutely sure to paint every inch of it - he smacks all the way around to both hips and _hmm_ s as he parts his cheeks to get at the extra-tender flesh between them. It takes a little while, but eventually Thomas can observe Hamilton starting to sink - the tension in his body is bleeding out, his shoulders slumping further forward as he supports himself on the floor with his hands. He’s limp in Washington’s lap, and Washington always replaces the hand on the small of his back to keep him steady, keep him from sliding back and forth with the force of his hand.

Eventually he eases off with a few more verbal admonishments, smacking Alex at a slower pace until finally he stops and rubs slow circles over the heated flesh. Alex’s hair hangs down, a curtain covering his face, and Washington reaches down to tuck it behind his ears. “You’re doing so good for me, son,” he praises, stroking through the hair from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck. “Mr. Jefferson,” he says abruptly, regarding Thomas in his chair. Hamilton shivers, but as Washington shushes him, he doesn’t try to move. “The bottom drawer of my file cabinet. Please bring me the paddle in there.”

Hamilton starts pleading, then, even as Jefferson crosses the room on pure adrenaline. He can’t remember having gotten up, but as he squats down to get into the metal cabinet, Hamilton’s noises are making him want everything to happen in fast-forward. “No, no, no, Sir, please. Please don’t use that on me, I hate it, I can’t, I can’t -“

Washington chides him. “Now, Hamilton, what has whining ever got us?” he asks rhetorically, tugging at his hair gently. “As for your claim that you can’t, you can, and you will. Understood?”

Hamilton sniffles, but he nods, and Washington doesn’t seem to need a verbal affirmative this time. He gestures to Thomas, who comes over to them. He can practically feel the heat radiating off of Hamilton’s body. Washington casts him an appraising look, and then he points downward with the fingers he’d had in Hamilton’s hair. Jefferson knows exactly what it means, and though it’s new to him, he kneels. Offers the paddle, leather and flexible, to Washington, who takes it and swishes it through the air. Alexander flinches. He’s right in front of Alexander, and on impulse he reaches out and cradles the younger man’s face in both of his now-empty hands, not forcing him to look at him but tracing his cheekbones with his thumbs. Hamilton’s face is hot, his hair sweaty and clinging to the tears that trickled onto his forehead when he’d been upside-down. Jefferson has never seen him like this, vulnerable. Almost weak. He finds he hates thinking of Alexander like this, and something flares in his heart, something like anger, toward Washington for causing it. He presses a quick kiss to Hamilton’s jaw. He wants to reassure him.

Hamilton huffs when the paddle lands on him first, not with an ounce of Washington’s true strength. He quickly starts to pick up the pace and the force he applies, slapping it a few times in one spot before he draws away to let the sting sink in before he’ll go back to it. Hamilton’s shifting and yelping is doing him no good, and he eventually goes slack again, sobbing, heaving in desperate lungfuls of air when he can. He’s just taking it. Jefferson can see how raw his ass is, scarlet, with welts that Washington just keeps hitting again and again. Hamilton’s body jerks under each blow. Jefferson wills away the pressure building behind his eyes, blinks away the tears at the corners of them.

He doesn’t know how to help, but he desperately wants to, has to find a way. He puts a hand at the back of Hamilton’s neck but that restricts his movement, so he readjusts, frames Alexander’s face again and trails his fingers gently over his temples. Hamilton looks at him, now, stares at him, lips open and face wet, and Thomas is just overcome, wants it to end, wants to kill Washington, wants to hold Alexander and whisper at him until he’s soothed, wants to -

Washington sets the paddle down on his desk. He rubs the hot skin of Hamilton’s ass in a motion that should be soothing, but all it does is shake more huge sobs out of Hamilton; he’s so oversensitive. Jefferson squints up at Washington accusatorially. “Can’t you see he’s had enough?” he probes, knuckles white where he grips Hamilton’s shoulder. He realizes he’s trembling worse than Hamilton, and a couple of the tears have loosed themselves from his eyes, stinging at his cheeks. Washington only looks down at them both with this infuriating self-satisfied look. He digs his nails into the pliant flesh of Hamilton’s ass, a wicked grin spreading across his face. Hamilton’s eyes squeeze shut as more hot tears fall. Jefferson swipes them away, his blood boiling.

“I suppose you think you know what’s enough for him,” Washington says. He examines Jefferson, his eyes dark, harsh. He speaks as if Alexander is not even there, as if he’s not splayed out on his lap, body limp and worn out. Washington hums, looks over the curve of Alex’s back. “You fuck him a few times,” he says, and he runs a hand over the crest of his ass to accentuate, and Alexander shivers, “and suddenly you think he can find everything he needs in you.”

Jefferson’s face heats, and he looks away momentarily in shame. Alexander whimpers, very quiet, and Thomas snaps his head back, trying to smile, trying to be a pillar for him. But Washington has read him like a book, and Alexander can’t defend himself right now - he’s too far gone. He doesn’t want to verbally joust with Washington now, not when he’s so much better-equipped, not when he’s positioned on such higher ground. He can’t help this rising roil in his chest, the burning need to stand up for Hamilton, to demand better for him, to be _kind_ to him.

He senses that if he is to do so, he has to play by Washington’s rules.

He nods, a finality. “Sir, if I may,” he starts, after clearing his throat. “There are many things to discuss, but it’s probably better to tend to him for now.” He rises to his feet, reaches for Alexander’s shoulders to lift him up, but Washington’s arm blocks his hands.

“He is _fine_ where he _is,_ Jefferson,” he growls, and it books no argument. “You can’t disturb him so soon.” Still, the tone of the conversation is as if Hamilton’s not even there, and it grates on Jefferson’s last nerve. But he looks down at Hamilton, at his red skin, at his sweaty hair, and the steady rise and fall of him as his breathing evens out, and realizes that maybe Washington is right. He’s the one out of his depth, here, after all. Hamilton and Washington had had a full routine down before he’d even walked in.

He settles for petting Hamilton’s hair, which Washington allows. Slowly, Hamilton seems to come around, and finally he stirs, raising his bare legs a bit to rock himself forward, and Washington lets him ride back on the momentum, lets him stand. Hamilton stretches, arms above his head, completely immodest to his nudity, and Jefferson leans back against the wall, watching Alexander’s half-hard cock not without curiosity. He wonders what happens now, what Washington does for him or lets him do.

But Washington simply picks his pants and underwear up for him, hands them over. Stands up and stretches, himself. He smooths Alexander’s stray hair and kisses him on the cheek, chaste and incongruous. He crosses the room on his long legs, tells them he’s headed down to the cafeteria and not to wait up, to enjoy their weekend.

The office feels rather empty without Washington in it. Hamilton dresses hurriedly, kind of winces as he yanks his underwear on, and then again with his khakis. He puts the paddle away and slams the cabinet drawer closed with his foot, taking a small key from Washington’s drawer and locking the whole thing. He picks up his bag and swings it to his hip, settles the weight. He’s a little sweatier than when he walked in, and his shirt’s untucked, but otherwise he’s just Hamilton - if Jefferson hadn’t seen it in progress, he wouldn’t know how bad his ass was burning right now.

“So,” Thomas says. He picks at a cuticle he’s torn up with his teeth.

“So,” Hamilton echoes, swinging his arms. He looks up at Jefferson, chewing his bottom lip.

Thomas picks up his own briefcase, slung over one shoulder instead of across his body. “Same time, same place this Sunday?” he asks Hamilton, voice full of mirth. 

Alexander nods. He does come over Sunday, and he lets Thomas be nice to him all afternoon, lets him kiss and caress his thighs and ass and back and feet until he’s all taken apart and demands to be fucked. Thomas digs his nails into the fading welts at his insistence as he pounds into him, and he chases away the tightness of guilt in his chest.


End file.
